


We've Been Here Before

by kehinki



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-28
Updated: 2013-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-30 16:51:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1021082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kehinki/pseuds/kehinki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s either going mad (<i>finally</i>), or he’s being haunted, which isn’t all that surprising. If Steve doesn't have the decency to stay dead, it'd be silly to expect anything else would.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We've Been Here Before

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the wonderful [ArtemisDiana](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtemisDiana/pseuds/ArtemisDiana). Any remaining mistakes are my own.

Steve’s apartment is sparse, enough so that he can close his eyes and recite exactly where everything he owns is in its place as they’re supposed to be: sugar jar is pushed to the right on top of the stove; the silverware—two spoons, two forks, two butter knives, one cutting knife—are  _always_ in the dish rack along with two plates and two mugs.

His coffeemaker is always next to the microwave, tilted slightly to the left for easy grabbing, a bag of fresh grounds leaning heavily against it. Except… the coffeemaker’s been straightened, and the spots of coffee ground he’s never bothered to wipe off the counter have been cleaned up.

He peers into the sink, and the off-white mug sits in it, stained with coffee on the inside. When Steve picks it up to inspect it, he sees that there’re no fingerprints, no impression of lips against the rim, like whoever drank from it poured the contents straight down their throat.

He checks the locks, twice. Checks the floors and carpet for unfamiliar footprints, impressions of heavy boots, perhaps, or sneakers. There’s nothing to be found and nothing missing.

He frowns when he realizes nothing else is amiss. He must be starting to forget things; maybe he’s tired. Maybe he should just make himself  _another_ cup of coffee.

 

* * *

 

A million years ago—not that long, of course not that long, but if he’s trying to describe it as it _feels,_ then a million years ago, Bucky, four feet tall with an attitude like he’s double that, tells him he’ll build them a house with his own two hands.

He says it’ll only be the two of them, so they’ll need two of everything, and they won’t ever have to share with dozens of other orphans. They wouldn’t have to fight for their fair portions. They’d have two beds, too, and two windows so they’d both get to sleep while facing outside.

Now, Steve has more than two windows. But only one bed. It’s big enough, he thinks, big enough that it’d be fine if Bucky’d stuck around to see their house—apartment—that someone else had built with their own two hands.

 

* * *

 

He comes home from a run the next night and his windows are open, all of them, letting in a nice breeze on a hot day, the chill soothing his sweat-damp skin and when he strode into the kitchen, he saw that the mug—the mug he’d washed yesterday, is back in the sink again.

“Hello?” he calls out, looking in the bathroom, the closet, the bedroom. Heart hammering behind his sternum, he ducks low, checking under the bed. He grabs the gun from his nightstand, forgoing the shield hidden under his floorboards, and just stands in the middle of his room in a defensive pose for god knows how long.

He can barely hear anything over the roar of his blood in his ears, but he strains to listen, focuses all his effort on catching the slightest noise.

In the living room, he hears a window close.

He doesn’t sleep that night, and in the morning when they’re sent off to battle, when they come back to debrief, Stark says, “Wow, Cap, didn’t know you were even  _capable_ of looking that bad.”

He comes home to find that the radio’s on and set to an oldies station—he doesn’t even  _listen_ to the oldies station, he listens to the newer stuff, the stuff Bruce had recommended to him, the stuff that screams twenty-first century,  _remember_ you’re in the twenty-first century.

He doesn’t sleep that night either. 

 

* * *

 

“The Winter Solider,” Fury says, “has been spotted in New York.”

Steve’s done his homework, he’s read the files, he knows what to expect and he knows that out on the streets, right now, is a modern day Frankenstein, a monster with a singular function, a killing machine made from broken parts that have been wiped clean and reprogrammed as his makers saw fit. He knows they’ll be dealing with a husk, something amoral and wicked, but what he doesn’t know is why Natasha refuses to look at him.

“Steve? Steve.  _Captain_ ,” Fury says, and Steve looks up from where his eyes had been fixed on the conference table, glaring at the shiny, wooden grain. “Keep your fucking head up and pay attention, because this involves your spangley ass. Soldier’s got a kill order, and we think it’s on you.”

 

* * *

 

They want him to stay at SHIELD but he’s not about to endanger anyone else if Fury’s suspicions prove true.

He gets home and he isn’t surprised to see the off-white mug is in the sink again. But he is surprised to see that the other mug, the blue one with his shield, the one Sam had given him, is sitting on the kitchen table, steaming full, filling the room with the bitter smell of plain coffee.

When he’d checked earlier, the security cameras outside the building had caught nothing. He’s sure cameras inside the apartment would fare just as poorly.

He’s either going mad ( _finally_ ), or he’s being haunted, which isn’t all that surprising; if Steve hadn’t even had the decency to stay dead, why would anything else?

“Thanks,” he says to the empty room, sitting down and holding the warm mug between his chilled hands.  He takes a sip without another thought.

When he crawls into bed later and closes his eyes, seconds away from sleep, he feels the bed shift, like someone’s weight has settled down into the sheets, but before he can think too hard about it, he slips into unconsciousness.

He dreams of cold fingers brushing against his throat. Perhaps their owner marvels at how easy it would be to clamp them down and _squeeze_.

 

* * *

 

A million years ago, Bucky had pressed a paper cup into his hands, telling him to drink up, telling him he’s sick of seeing the bags under his eyes.

“Why haven’t you been sleeping? Is it too cold in your room? I told Flannigan a week ago we need that heater fixed, I swear to fuck.”

Steve doesn’t admit out loud that it  _is_ too cold, and instead says it’s his own damn fault, that he’d kept himself awake reading. “Reading what?” Bucky asks, smiling, disbelieving, and Steve tells him to shut up without any real heat behind the words.

Bucky crawls into bed with him that night, arms circling around him and pulling him close like he weighs nothing because he  _does_ weigh nothing. Bucky’s body—strong and fit and  _working_ in the ways Steve’s body fails—is radiating heat. Bucky’s breaths are warm and soothing against the back of his neck and his lips are even hotter against the shell of his ear. “Better?” he asks softly.

Steve turns in his arms and presses a kiss to his lips without even thinking about it.

 

* * *

 

The Winter Soldier doesn’t ever leave fingerprints, Steve learns. He’d worn off the fingerprints of one hand with acid, he’s been told, and the other hand is made of metal. A metal hand that could crush a man’s trachea to dust with a twitch of cold, artificial fingers. 

“ _With my own two hands,_ ” he hears Bucky say from a lifetime ago, and Steve can barely hear him over the rattling of the train, over the roar of the wind.  

 

* * *

 

He spends the next day in coffeeshops, sketching fellow customers and ignoring his phone whenever it buzzes.  When he comes home, bundled up and hunched over, his apartment is cold, cold enough to cause his breaths to float up in a gauzy mist in front of him. 

The heater’s on the fritz and Steve’s cocooned himself with both the blankets he owns. He’s curled up on his side, on the edge of the bed and he’s nearly managed to fall asleep when he feels the bed shift, when he feels arms—one cold, one hot, circle around him.

He turns in the circle of the arms, but it’s too dark to make out who it is. Just another ghost. He’s _always_ seeing ghosts.

“Bucky?” he whispers.

There’s a pregnant pause where the person—the man—lies absolutely still in the darkness. And then he speaks, voice low and hard: “No.”

No. Because Bucky’s frozen bones lay at the bottom of a ravine.

Steve lets his eyes slip shut, leans forward and kisses him anyway.


End file.
